


The Fisto Incident

by Rabenherz



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout - Fandom, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arcade Gannon Deserves Better, Coming Untouched, Fucking Machines, General Frustration, Humor, M/M, Other, Overstimulation, Robot Sex, Sexual Frustration, The Courier Is A Very Frustrating Person, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22638055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabenherz/pseuds/Rabenherz
Summary: For a long moment Arcade and Cassidy stand side by side, quietly savouring the reality of what their lives have turned into.“Not a dull moment, huh?”
Relationships: Arcade Gannon/Courier, Courier/Fisto, Male Courier/Arcade Gannon, Male Courier/Fisto
Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628497
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

"Fully Integrated Security Technetronic Officer active and reporting for duty."

"That's a bit of a mouthful," drawls Arthur from where he is still typing bits and pieces of instructions into the terminal next to the infernal machine’s pod. His fingers pause on the keys, and though he stands with his back to Arcade, Arcade can imagine the usual slow grin spread across his thin lips.

"Lets shorten that to Fisto."

Yikes.

“Yes, sir. Fisto reporting for duty. Please assume the position.”

_Yikes._

Arcade cannot suppress a mild shudder, even as Cassidy snorts a laugh from her lookout position by the door.

This must be how Frankenstein felt.

" _Right,_ " Arcade says, "Job done. Let's get it back to the Wrangler so we can forget the amount of effort and time we spent getting this… _thing_ up and running."

Apparently finally satisfied, Arthur closes the panel and bends to pick up his satchel. "Don't be like that,” he says, slinging it over his shoulder. “As far as I see it, this is a decent little job that's gonna keep us all fed and watered for the next few days. Besides, nobody's got hurt who wasn't shooting at us first, and we're supporting a local business. Everybody wins!”

“Not to sound like a prude,” Arcade says, increasingly resigned to the fact that he appears to have become their little posse’s devil’s advocate. “But how much support does your average local whorehouse-slash-casino-slash-drug-den really need?”

Arthur’s eyes widen in mock affront.

“You do surprise me, Arcade Gannon!” he says. “I’d have thought a bit of exploitation-free sex-work would be right up your street. Sex-bots are bound to be about as ethical of a lay as you can get ‘round these parts.”

Arcade rolls his eyes, and quite purposefully refrains from pointing out that consensual, mutually enjoyable sexual contact without the exchange of monetary compensation is something people _absolutely_ still engage in, even in Vegas. Arthur knows that better than most, and Arcade knows that Arthur knows, etcetera, etcetera. Though he is far from handsome, the Courier gets around. It is mildly infuriating, especially since Arcade really doesn't these days. 

“Sure, _now_ you’d argue that robots are things and not people,” Arcade complains halfheartedly.

Arthur shrugs, as if to indicate that he doesn’t really see the difference. They’ve had this conversation before, in a number of incarnations. Arthur has this strange affinity for machines that Arcade finds utterly impossible to relate to.

As if to prove Arcade’s point, the Courier companionably rapps his knuckles against the sexbot’s chassis.

"Right, Fisto. You ready to go to your new home, buddy?"

"I am programmed for your pleasure. Please assume the position." The machine’s voice burrs like the blade of a ripper, and Arcade cannot fathom that there will be buyers for this kind of service. He turns to leave, but the look on Cass’ face paints a deeply, deeply disturbing picture. Arcade twists to glance over his shoulder, and the courier’s hand still resting against cold metal. He seems… preoccupied.

“You cannot possibly be serious,” Arcade says flatly, and marvels at the speed with which the courier averts his gaze from the machine. Who knew the man even had it in him to be flustered?

"I mean," mutters Arthur, "I suppose we really ought to test it before we hand it over to the Garrets. Right?" As he speaks his tone regains its usual calm confidence. Jesus fucking christ on a vertibird, he is talking himself into it. “ Right. There were a few decent enough sofas just next door.” He saunters to poke his head around the door-frame.

“You two mind keeping watch?”

"Really?” says Arcade. And once more, but with a lot more feeling: _“Really?”_

"Fucking hell, Gannon,” chimes in Cassidy. “Will you please let the man fuck his robot, so we can all get on with our lives?”

She helpfully relieves the Courier of his bag, before immediately proceeding to rummage through it.

“Aha!” she exclaims, triumphantly producing a half-empty bottle of bourbon and handing it to Arthur. “I think you’re gonna need that.”

Arcade has half a mind to snatch it from him, feeling he needs a drink much more urgently than either of the other two. He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed up tightly for a moment to combat his emerging headache.

"Arthur, do the words 'internal bleeding' mean anything to you? How about 'anal fissure'?"

The Courier spreads his arms with a flourish, causing the liquid to slosh about in the bottle. He flashes a grin, sharp and wicked, and it lands in the pit of Arcade’s stomach like a ball of lead.

"I like to think of myself as an experience seeker!”

And with that, he is gone, Fisto’s CLANKCLANKCLANKing footsteps hot on his heels, growing fainter. Cassidy closes the door behind them.

For a long moment Arcade and Cass stand side by side, quietly savouring the reality of what their lives have turned into.

“Not a dull moment, huh?” Cassidy thumps Arcade on the shoulder, perhaps a touch too hard, as she passes to pull up a chair.

“No need to 'em watch too closely. I figure we cleared out the area pretty well; Six'll have plenty of time.” She places her rifle across her knees, and starts to clean it, calm as anything.

“Unless you want to watch, of course.”

Arcade huffs irritably, and moves to take a seat of his own, not feeling the need to dignify that with a response. He sits, stiffly, cross-armed and legged, and not quite sure what to do with himself, or even where to look. Time flows like molasses, but for a while it is blessedly quiet, safe for the quiet clinks and clicks of Cassidy’s impromptu gun maintenance session.

It doesn’t last. Of course it doesn't

Mercifully, Arcade can’t hear the buzz and thrum and hydraulic… thrusts of Fisto at this distance, but it turns out that Arthur has a rather impressive pair of lungs on him. It is not discomfitingly pained, so Arcade doesn’t quite feel tempted to rush to the Courier’s rescue, but he is not sure he has ever heard those kinds of sounds come out of a human throat before. He digs his nails into the flesh of his palms, heat rushing to his face. He wipes his brow and steals a glance at Cassidy, who is still barely showing any reaction at all to the sounds of their intrepid leader getting fucked within an inch of his life in the adjacent room… hopefully only metaphorically.

The sounds pick up, in urgency if not volume, and Arcade’s mind very helpfully supplies a few suggestions as to what ‘the position’ might be. He groans and buries his head in his hands, well aware that his fidgeting must be dreadfully conspicuous. Hopefully the main thing he radiates is discomfort, rather than mortified arousal, but he imagines Arthur under him, all taut and compact and strangely compelling. His skin would be flushed, perhaps not neatly, but blotchy, red creeping up right into his hairline to blend into that untidy, fiery mop of his. Perhaps he wouldn’t look so smug for once, with his face pushed firmly to the mattress…

“You know he does it to fuck with you, right?”

Cass’ voice is like a bucket of cold water.

“Huh?”

“Six,” she says slowly, as though she is talking to an utter imbecile. “ He pulls shit like this to get a rise out of you. He finds it funny when you get all flustered around him. Hence all the flirting with no damn pay-off.”

The suggestion makes Arcade bristle, but he has enough brainpower left to preserve some modesty by refraining from jumping to his feet for a hasty, undignified exit.

“Oh please,” he huffs, “You are making this entire thing sound awfully juvenile.” He pauses, frowns. “Not that this thing… is a thing.” He gestures a little helplessly, trying to push the very notion away from him, belatedly realising that he is making it worse. "And not to say that him putting on a display like this isn't childish in the first place. Oh, you know what I mean."

The roll of Cassidy’s eyes is so heavy and dramatic as to very nearly be audible.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Doc.” Her eyes are on him now, full of mischief even in the boarded-up building's dim light. She glances down and down. “Better sort yourself out soon, though. I think he’s been done for a while now.”

She is right. Arcade doesn’t even get a chance to properly voice the depth of his mortification before the rusty old door scrapes open almost furtively.

“Well, that was... different,” he courier’s voice sounds broken. Tired. “Are you guys coming?”

Arcade wants to die. Or punch him. Or punch both of them. He will make up his mind after a nice, temperate shower back at the Wrangler. On Arthur’s bill. It’s the least the Courier can do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are three options, he supposes. Turn around and fess up to the joke - not fucking likely - take a 20 minute nap while Arcade stews and wonders, or... well. 
> 
> “Please assume the position.”
> 
> Well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter I never meant to write.  
> I also took the opportunity to clean up the first one somewhat.  
> Thoughts, feelings and suggestions are most welcome! Thanks for The comments and kudos.

The door falls shut behind them, and Arthur finally cracks. Leaning heavily against the wall, he shakes with silent laughter until his stomach aches. What a picture! The memory of Arcade’s horrified disapproval is going to keep him going through many a cold night on the road. 

_Poor Arcade,_ Arthur thinks, wiping at his eyes with be back of his hand as he slowly recovers. He really shouldn’t tease him so. If only it wasn’t so _easy_. As far as he’s concerned they might have fucked weeks ago, but there is something almost perversely appealing in watching the good doctor’s brows creep towards his hairline, before drawing together in muted outrage. It’ll be alright in the end; either Arthur will tire of his game and make a proper move, or Arcade will get frustrated enough to either strangle or kiss him. Maybe both. Regardless, it is only a matter of time, and Arthur endeavours to enjoy the push and pull between them as much as he can in the meanwhile. 

“I am programmed for your pleasure,” Fisto supplies expectantly, reminding Arthur of his presence.

Arthur chuckles, straightening up. 

“I know you are.”

There are three options, he supposes. Turn around and fess up to the joke - not fucking likely - take a 20 minute nap while Arcade stews and wonders, or... well. 

“Please assume the position.”

_Well_.

How many people can realistically say they've screwed a full-metal-murder-machine? Sexbot routine, or not, Arthur is all-too aware that Protrectons were not designed to cram their multi-tools into human-shaped orifices. Not for pleasure, anyway.

Fisto's casing is cold and disconcertingly unyielding when Arthur prods the robot with questing fingers. He regards the Protectron’s claw with some apprehension. It is strangely comforting that he is not so far gone as to find the prospect more arousing than concerning, his growing reputation as a thoroughly kinky bastard notwithstanding. Still, he wasn’t joking when he called himself somewhat of an experience-seeker.

Besides, if he doesn’t do it now, James Garret is only going to try and charge him for it. 

“Guess we’re really doing this, huh buddy?”

He scans the room. Perfectly good sofa, as he'd said. Probably only a little mouldy. Arthur's fooled around on worse. There is no way in hell he is going to strip buck naked in an abandoned building in the middle of junkie-town, though, so he just unbuckles his belt and drops his jeans as much as he needs to in order to be able to kneel. 

"Please assume the position."

"On it, on it. Geez you're bossy. Hang in there a minute, will you?"

On second thought he takes his cowboy hat off, placing it neatly beside his splayed knees. It seems prudent somehow.

Arthur keeps a small bottle of oil in one of his jacket pockets, along with a collection of tools, trinkets and other things that are bound to come in handy. Yarn, needles, matches. Things like that. The oil is multi-functional, and used for anything from greasing hinges, tinkering with weapons, and unexpected encounters with handsome drifters. It's good to be prepared.

He coats his fingers and reaches back to open himself up, circling, pushing. He’s not even hard yet, and the only reason he takes a while to get himself ready is because he fears what might happen if he isn’t thorough enough. Flexible as Arthur is, this isn’t an act he's ever acquired a great deal of taste for. 

"C'mon then, big guy," he says once he is ready, and promptly bursts out laughing. Famous last words.

Fisto approaches to line itself up, a strangely shuffling quality to its CLANKCLANKCLANK as it… assumes the position, for lack of a better term. 

Arthur grips the back of the sofa firmly with one hand, bracing himself, and wraps the other one around his dick to give himself a few encouraging strokes. The first intrusion is uncomfortable, but mostly because the metal appendage is cold against his skin. The girth Arthur can take, if just, but he has to close his eyes and breathe carefully through it.

At least Fisto is giving him some time to adjust.

Arthur must be subconsciously trying to move away from the pressure, because at some point the pincers of Fisto’s unoccupied claw dig sharply into his hip, effectively clamping him in place. 

Oh boy. 

How helpful. Maybe they should add padding for future clients.

Arthur draws a deep breath, exhaling slowly through clenched teeth. He is no longer trying to coax himself to arousal, hoping he’ll start having a bit of fun once he gets used to the sensations. 

"O-okay," he says. “Okay. Go for it.”

“Servos activate!”

The machine comes to life with the thrum of a revving engine, starting low but soon growing in intensity. The metal buried deep within Arthur withdraws, just as agonizingly slowly as it forced its way inside. But there is no time for respite.

" _Oh shit!_ "

The first thrust hits with enough force that Arthur reflexively clutches at the back of the sofa with both hands, producing a small cloud of ancient dust. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s the kind of fucking that you’d expect to at least buy you dinner first.

This is going to be a tough ride.

Arthur grits his teeth and bears it, then no longer has to. The considerable stretch and friction grow pleasurable sooner than he expected, and though he’s not managed to get a hand around his cock again just yet, he can feel himself growing hard. It’s been some years since he’s last been fucked, and though he never really favoured the sensation, he can appreciate the machine’s unfaltering rhythm. In fact-

“Increase speed by… 15%?”

And okay, yes. This is growing on him. 

Arthur isn’t usually particularly noisy during sex, but it is difficult to suppress some of the moans and gasps produced by the intensity of the thrusts. He’s never been fucked like this; doubts most anyone has. Surely they must hear him in the other room? The thought is both amusing and appealing. Cass is a laugh; she won’t mind much, but Arcade-

Oh _Arcade_.

Gasping a startled laugh, Arthur wonders if Arcade’s enjoying the show.

The vice on his hip repositions him, pressing bruises. Then does it again. And again. If Arthur wasn’t rather distracted by this point, he might feel somewhat stupid for not realising what the machine is aiming for until the angle changes just enough. The assault on his prostate is unrelenting, and it becomes too much immediately. Each breath he draws is punched out of his lungs as a choked cry. 

There are ways to stop the routine, fail-safes and safe-words a-plenty. 

Arthur should know; he’s spent a good portion of the afternoon programming them. 

But he doesn’t know. Can’t think. Or at least can’t think of anything but the pressure building within him, that agonising ecstasy that needs to stop _now_ , but had better never stop at all. The only thing he knows is that he needs a hand on his cock, and needs it so badly he fears he might break. Held in place as he is, there is nothing for him to rut against, no way for him to muster enough coordination to get a hand between his legs. 

In the end he comes without a touch, in waves and waves that do not seem to stop. He shudders his way through it helplessly, eyes screwed shut and open-mouthed

Fisto withdraws slowly, releasing him to sink into the cushions beneath.

“I’m a fucking genius,” Arthur mutters weakly against the worn cover of the sofa, tasting dust and rot. He’s actually managed to turn a Protectron into a goddamn sextoy, of all things. Garret had better pay handsomely. 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, catching his breath, cataloguing his limbs. It feels like hours, but even in his current state he knows that Cass and Arcade would have come to check up on him by now if that was the case. When he finally summons the energy to get to his feet, it takes several attempts to buckle his belt. His hands are shaking, as are his thighs. Every muscle in his body feels simultaneously pulled taunt and liquidised.

“Numbness will subside in several minutes. Awaiting further orders.” 

“Oh, goody,” croaks Arthur. “Very reassuring. Report to the Atomic Wrangler. James Garret is your new owner.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Fisto moves towards the exit with all the steadiness and urgency of an unmotivated glacier.

“And that’s all I get? No cuddling? No breakfast in be-” The machine stops abruptly, starts to turn towards him. 

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Arthur says quickly, shooing Fisto with a wave of his hand. “Go on home, heart-breaker. I’ll be alright.”

And there Fisto goes, CLANKCLANKCLANKing steadily towards Freeside. Arthur snickers. Garret won’t know what hit him. 

There are all of ten paces between Arthur and the other room, but the way there is a bit of an adventure. When he finally opens the door, Cass and Arcade’s heads turn towards him in unison. 

“Well, that was... different,” he croaks, quite deliberately catching Arcade’s eye and not letting go. 

“Are you guys coming?”

**Author's Note:**

> Quietly saunters back into Fallout New Vegas hell.


End file.
